


to kill a king (i think i love)

by jamiemoriartys



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M, just a whole lotta good ol' angst, no beta we die like men, post season two, rio isn't really dead ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamiemoriartys/pseuds/jamiemoriartys
Summary: Suddenly, he’s right there, clicking his tongue. “You’re not that tough, like this.”At that, Beth sobs. “I shot you!” Great, now she’s talking to dead people! Ghosts inside her head! She looks at Rio, features so fine and defined, and she exhales shakily. “You’re dead!”“Ah, darlin’”, he says, eyes crinkling with a grin, his voice is soft, soothing, and Beth thinks she can feel the air of his words on her skin. “I will come back from the dead for you.”
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	to kill a king (i think i love)

**Author's Note:**

> yo LOOK i started writing this right after season 2 thinkin it would really be like this but now they back and fuck it really NOT BE LIKE THIS rio pls come on
> 
> [this poem](https://nehmesis.tumblr.com/post/148936287075/love-he-says-is-not-real-hes-said-it-again) was a big inspiration, definitely quoted lines from there!!

It’s not like Beth _wanted_ to do it.

But it’s much like with a feral animal: left without an escape, they attack, vicious and incalculable. There’s no finesse to it, no deliberation, no nothing—merely an instinct to flee. That’s the thing: corner one, and it’ll do just about anything to get out, rash and wide-eyed, mascara smudged on porcelain skin.

Like pull a trigger.

Beth shudders.

“Shit, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it just slipped, it’s fine.”

She looks at the plate, now just a few bigger and several small pieces in her sink, shattered, and she looks over the shoulder, at Annie who’s already halfway up from her seat, wincing. “Really, it’s fine.”

“Okay”, Annie says. The stool scrapes against the floor as she sits down again, and Beth turns to her sink again. “At least it wasn’t Nana’s china”, she hears behind her, with paper shuffling and a page turning.

“Right”, Beth sighs. She starts picking up the pieces, gathering them into a plastic bowl. The clink and the clank doesn’t seem to bother Annie, absent and all too focused on munching homemade cookies and on the crafting magazine she’s flipping through.

“How’s Gang Friend?”

Beth freezes still.

It flashes through her mind. 

The weight of his golden gun in her hands, the same gun he’s had nestled against her neck, temple, everywhere. The indifference in his voice, the trust in his eyes. The warmth of his skin as his fingers ghosted over hers.

The way his golden gun kicked more than she expected, the way his dark button-up stained even darker at his side. The determination in his step, the pull of her finger. The groans and coughs and _splutter_ as she didn’t look back.

The slow drawl of his _darlin’_.

“Oh, he’s not around”, Beth says, easy, turning back to Annie. Her hands lie flat against the wood of the countertop. It’s almost ironic, she thinks, empty gaze staring into the dining room, how she couldn’t pull the trigger then.

“What do you mean he’s _not around_?” Annie asks. There’s an undertone to her voice, and Beth squints at it.

“What do you mean _what do you mean_? It’s not like he hasn’t just left before”, Beth rolls her eyes, her tone rising into a high pitch. “It’s not like—”

“People are temporary, I guess”, Annie suddenly ponders. There’s a lot of weight in that, and her eyes are suddenly empty, lost in the smooth white of one of the kitchen cabinets. She’s picking at her last cookie, fingers tearing the soft batter apart. 

Beth’s not sure what to do with her hands, suddenly. Her voice is careful. “Did you have feelings for him?”

Annie scoffs, outraged. “What, for _Gang Friend_? That’s your alley!”

“No, for—Nevermind”, Beth sighs. “And I did not have feelings for him. Fucking’s different.”

“Sure. You totally do, though.”

Annie’s eyes are bright again, corners crinkled with amusement, and Beth can’t help but smile. “Yes, I feel that he was a bit annoying.”

“That’s a feeling!” Her sister hums in triumph.

Beth shakes her head and lets it go, grabbing Annie’s empty plate. It survives the wash-up unlike her own, and she places it on the drying rack. A car drives by outside, a black Lexus, an awfully familiar in looks. 

Beth feels a knot in her throat.

The car’s nowhere near as familiar as Rio standing across the road. Beth stares, at the long lines of his body, fitted shirt without any stains, clean face and crooked smile. Someone jogs by as if he’s not even really there.

And he isn’t. 

She stares and she wonders: is this how she keeps him alive, a ghost tucked deep between her ribs?

His mouth twists into a laugh, and it echoes in Beth’s head. The unnatural falsetto of it, the way it spilled from his lips like he simply couldn’t contain it, breath hitching at the end; cruel and out of place, a nasty distortion of a laughter; the crinkled corners of his eyes, like it was funny to him.

The incredulous look in his eyes, fingertips stained red. The stagger in his step, his fall.

Beth inhales, sharp.

He’s not there across the street, anymore, but here, right here, in her head: the groans, the coughs, the splutter.

Beth doesn’t want it.

Later, when Annie’s left and Beth’s turned the light off, the house is quiet. She’s not quite used to it, the way it dies down after the kids are gone, Dean’s gone. Opposed to what most people might feel like, in a house five rooms too large for one, Beth thinks the walls are closing in on her, thinks she might just suffocate if she stays still for too long.

Sometimes, at night, she holds her phone.

Rio doesn’t have a contact photo attached to his number. He’s just a grey background and a white body, but no matter how tight Beth worries her lip between her teeth, she can’t see that. There’s always Rio, never the same exact look but always, his clean cut and neat beard, smug smile and heavy lidded eyes staring back at her from the screen.

Beth’s not sure if they are memories or if she’s making him up.

Sometimes, at night, she calls his number.

It always rings, and it always goes to voicemail. Beth never leaves one. It would feel too much like Last Words, like something final. People die twice, right? Once, when they get shot by Beth Boland, and the second, later on, when someone says your name for the last time.

Why did he hand her the gun?

It rings, rings, rings and—it’s ringing _inside_ the house.

“No”, Beth breathes. It can’t. But it does, and it’s relentless. _Surely_ , she’s hearing things. But no, the melody echoes throughout the house, as if in every room, and Beth can’t escape the tell-tale iPhone ringer. _Surely_ , it’s someone else’s phone, and _surely_ , it’s just a sick and twisted coincidence. 

Surely, she thinks, and the floorboards feel cold underneath her toes.

Beth doesn’t make it far, and the floorboards feel even colder underneath her bare thighs as she sinks down on the floor, skin aching from where the wallpaper drags against it, and God, she’s a mess.

He stands there, the phone in his hands, and it’s ringing and ringing and ringing and—

_Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system recording…_

“You’re not real.”

It’s not as much as a sob as it is a desperate attempt to remind herself of that. He’s not real, Rio isn’t really there, she shot him, _she shot Rio_ , and he handed her the gun and—

Suddenly, he’s right there, clicking his tongue. “You’re not that tough, like this.”

At that, Beth sobs. “I shot you!” Great, now she’s talking to dead people! Ghosts inside her head! She looks at Rio, features so fine and defined, and she exhales shakily. “You’re _dead_!”

“Ah, darlin’”, he says, eyes crinkling with a grin, his voice is soft, soothing, and Beth thinks she can feel the air of his words on her skin. “I will come back from the dead for you.”

“You’re not real”, Beth whispers. There’s blood on his shirt tonight, and her eyes study each splatter, all the way to the collar of his button-up, to the sharp line of his jaw, to his cheek—

She blinks out of it and takes a careful step back, backtracking her steps to her beds, sheets already gone cold, and she closes her eyes.

He’s not real.

The mattress dips.

Beth’s heart beats heavily, and when she turns her head, there’s blood in his ear, too. He’s lying there, dead still— _dead_ still, Beth’s breathing hiccups—and she wants to touch him, wants to run her fingers over his skin until they’re raw at the tips. I’m sorry, she wants to say, I’m so sorry.

But it’s too late: his gaze falls on her and his eyes are empty, glassy—dead, she shudders.

“You don’t kill something you love”, Dean had argued once, coming home to a golden gun digging into the crook of his wife’s neck.

Rio had laughed them, an ugly bubble of a laugh, voice high-pitched and cruel at the end, and Beth had felt the hot breath of his amused words against her skin: “Love is not real.”

So, instead of an apology too late, she whispers, “Love is not real.” Rio blinks at that. His eyes dance around her soft lips, the curve of her nose, her eyes, and Beth’s not sure if it’s just the dark or if his eyes have gone black, the all too familiar brown of his eyes just barely there. He reaches out a hand—

Bet has imagined him before, right here, in this bedroom.

She still flinches when he touches her, fingers like feathers dragging across her collarbone, tips rough and scratchy. Heart beating wildly, Beth’s breath startles: he’s not real, he’s dead, she shot him, she misses him, this is how she keeps him alive, he’s not real, she misses him, she _loves_ him—

His lips are soft against her, the kiss chaste, his weight against her chest. It works much like an anchor, his fingers tangling with hers and holding her still, down, there, _here_ , now, with him. She’s alive, he’s a ghost, and God, Beth sobs, broken and trembling because she misses him, she loves him, she shot him, she killed him.

When she opens her eyes, he’s there, eyes curious and one of his fingers brushing her hair away from her face where it’s sticking to the tears running on her skin. Gentle, his hands cup her face, lips moving against hers once more, and Beth chases this one until she’s breathless, chest heaving and lips bruised and tingling all over.

“I love you”, she whispers to the bird in his throat because it's easier like that, and he looks at her with hooded eyes, mouth hanging ajar, Adam’s apple bobbing.

There’s no laughter, no amusement, only trembling breath in Beth’s hair. 

“Don’t do this to me, Elizabeth.”

In the morning, there's blood on her pillow, and blood on her shirt, too.


End file.
